First things first. I'M SORRY! I took way, WAY long to update this thing. Ugh. So I started an update update thingy on my profile page that I update a bunch so you can know the progress of the stuff I'm writing. This thing took so long to get up because I had way too many ideas for this thing. I originally wanted to do another chapter with kiddie goodness, but it seemed kind of like a filler, so I scrapped it. However, I do have it, and I think it's pretty funny, so if I get enough people who want to read it, I'll type it and stick it up here. Then I did about four drafts of this chapter before I came up with something I liked. So...here it is in all it's glory. I really hope you enjoy it as much as I do. Oh, and don't hesitate to leave me reviews, or send an e-mail or something telling me what you liked, what you didn't, and that sort of stuff. I really love it and it helps me write this stuff. One more thing. I do a bit of a background thing on Chauvie in this one. I am well aware that he was an aristocrat in the books and movies, but he never struck me as being one in the musical. And after SP1, Madame Guillotine became a Chauvie solo. And he ain't going to know the gutters and the stink of the streets if he's an aristo. Hence, my justification that he grew up not wealthy. I'm writing a Chauvie life story, and that's what it's based on. So there.
Disclaimer: I own Lucian, and Mercier and Coupeau's personalities. Shadow131 is the proud owner of Andre. I love him. I'd glomp him, but he'd probably have a heart attack. The rest isn't mine for multiple reasons, the first being I'm not the genius that came up with the Scarlet Pimpernel.
Soon The Moon Will Smoulder
Chapter 3: Son Of The Saint
England, 1807
"Lady Blakeney, two men wish your audience. Will you see them?"
Marguerite looked up from the book she held in slight confusion. She certainly was not expecting anyone, and could not for the life of her venture to guess whom it could possibly be. Gently closing the book and laying it on the table, she stood up and smoothed out her dress. "Of course. Send them in." Nodding, the servant turned and left to fetch Marguerite's visitors.
Marguerite slowly wandered toward the window and gazed softly out at the garden. She suddenly had a longing to go back and visit France. It had been fifteen years since she had been to the country of her birth and she was missing it dearly. However, she knew that going back now was an impossibility; within the past few years, Napoleon had transformed France into a powerful military state, making the country a feared enemy to most of Europe, England included. Napoleon's armies were fearfully victorious, already managing to conquer large parts of the continent and openly challenging all those who dared oppose him. No, France was not safe at the time.
A slight clearing of a throat pulled Marguerite out of her revere and she found herself alone in the room with two men in the uniforms of high-ranking officers of the Grand Army of France. The man bowed slightly in the stunned woman's direction. "Mademoiselle St. Just, it has been entirely too long since we have seen you last. How have you been these past fifteen years?"
Marguerite relaxed immediately. These men were no friends of hers, but they were far from strangers. "Mercier, Coupeau. This is an unexpected surprise! What are you doing here?"
"Merely come to see how you are doing." Coupeau said softly.
"That's terribly sweet." Marguerite said, smiling warmly at the two soldiers. "I've been well. Busy, but well. My children are a handful. All three are more or less insane. They get it from their father. Enough of me," she said gleefully, clasping the men's hands in her own, "how have you been?"
"I wish that we could say that we are as well as you, Madame."
"We have been terribly stressed as of late," Mercier said tiredly.
"Oh dear. What has been happening?" Marguerite asked, slightly concerned.
"Nothing too terrible." Coupeau answered. "Napoleon has been having some reasonably nasty fits as of late. His war effort is costing a great deal of money and he is running out of funding very quickly. What's really upsetting him is that he cannot touch the largest sum of money in all of France."
"Why is that?" Marguerite asked curiously. "He is emperor. Can he not do as he wishes?"
"You would think, but the Catholic Church, as much as they fear him, refuses to budge on this matter," Mercier said shortly, slightly irritated.
"I trust you remember our dear friend Chauvelin?" Coupeau asked softly.
"Of course." Marguerite said in barley a whisper. "He is a very difficult man to forget, even after all this time."
And the fact that Marguerite was raising the former agent's son was not helping her in the least to forget the man. Now fourteen years old and bearing a striking resemblance to his father, all young Lucian ever spoke about with his mother was the Saint Chauvelin, and the ideals and the flaws of the French Revolution. The child had spent the past six years in near isolation, studying the Revolution nearly religiously and analyzing every event, every person, and every flaw in the regime that caused the Republic to fail, the extent of his knowledge lost to his parents. He also spent a good deal of his time studying weaponry and swordplay, using the most efficient and advantageous aspects of the multiple styles he studied to create his own method of fighting that was faster, more accurate, and therefore more deadly then any other style he knew.
Sighing slightly, Marguerite sat on the sofa and motioned for the two men to do the same. "Why bring up Chauvelin now, monsieur?" Marguerite asked quietly.
"Madame, this enormous amount of wealth that Napoleon cannot touch belongs to him."
"What? How is that even possible, Coupeau?" Marguerite asked in complete shock.
"First of all, the Revolution made him an incredibly wealthy man. He held a position of power. No matter how equal the government, the ones in power will always be better off then the average man," Mercier said stoically.
"And he became that rich from the Revolution? Christ, that's impossible!"
"I would have to agree with you, Madame. That is quite impossible." Coupeau said softly. "He was wealthy far before the Revolution. He started his own personal vengeance against the aristocracy before he was twenty, far before the people even entertained the notion of rebelling. That little vendetta of his wiped out entire noble families and made him immensely wealthy as a result."
"I don't understand," Marguerite said, completely dazed. "He never appeared to be rich."
"Of course not. You've seen how he lived. He only owned what was essential to live, and no more than that. You know better then any that he was extremely possessive. That applies to his fortune as well. He wasn't born a rich man, and he suddenly became one. I think he was afraid of losing it all, so he hoarded it and never touched it."
"I have one more question," Marguerite asked slowly. "Chauvelin has been dead for fifteen years. What's stopping Napoleon from just taking what he wants?"
"Ah." Coupeau leaned back against the sofa, chuckling softly. "Chauvelin's a cunning bastard. After his death, the Committee sent us and Chauvelin's young assistant, Andre Madeline, to go through his office and home to look for documents, tools, anything that may further aid the Revolution. We happened upon Chauvelin's will, Madame. The man willed everything he owned, his estate, his weaponry, his estate, everything, to his children. Since he had none, that money is now untouchable by law. Either way, Napoleon could have gotten his way, but then Chauvelin was made a saint, and his will and possessions are now protected by the church. Napoleon recognizes that the church is a powerful ally, and an even more powerful enemy. To defy church sanction would be to turn the church and the majority of France against him, and he will lose. Does that make sense, Madame?"
"Mother!"
Marguerite slightly jumped and tensed more then she already was at the sound of the silken voice, the slamming of the door, and the soft foot falls of the child's feet upon the wood floor as he swiftly walked closer.
Lucian quickly turned the corner and stepped into the room, but stopped suddenly as he saw his mother sitting upon the sofa with two men he had never seen before. Instantly bringing his guard up, he walked carefully into the room, his gold, falcon-like eyes quickly running over the startled features of the strangers. "Mother," he said cautiously, "I wished to speak with you, but I trust that you are too occupied to see me. Am I correct in my assumption?"
"No, no Luc! Not at all!" Marguerite cried happily, quickly jumping up from her seat and crossing the room to meet her son. "What is it I can do for you, mon cherie?"
"Who are those men, Mother?" Lucian asked in a whisper, throwing the now standing men a dangerous glare, causing the soldiers to visibly tremble.
"They are Mercier and Coupeau, friends of mine from France."
"Really?" Lucian asked, clearly interested, as he gracefully stepped around his mother and approached the men. "Good Afternoon, Citizens." Lucian said softly as he bowed slightly, never losing eye contact with Coupeau. "You men are soldiers in Napoleons army, yes?"
"We are," Mercier said weakly.
"May I ask what you men think of your Grand General?"
"He is a great leader who has done great things for France," Mercier replied, stronger and more confident then before.
"Wrong, Citizen!" Lucian snapped, tearing his gaze from Coupeau and locking his falcon-like gaze with Mercier's suddenly frightened eyes. "Do you not remember that for a brief time you were free and equal? The Revolution did that for you. And what does Napoleon do? He proclaims himself Emperor. Well, congratulations, people of France. You have a king again. What about all of the lives that were taken during the Revolution? Were all those people to die in vain? France shames herself. You have a revolution to overthrow the oppressive monarchy, and when the time comes to institute a new government, what do you do? You institute a monarchy. Napoleon single-handedly let the lives of the dead go to waste. And you call this tyrant the savior of France? Disgusting."
"Lucian!" Marguerite cried in shock at her son. "Good Englishmen do not try to provoke guests! Apologize to these good gentlemen!"
"I have spoken my mind and the truth, and for that I owe no apology." Lucian said coldly as he turned away from the men and approached his mother. "However, at your request, I shall refrain from further lecturing these good men on the quality of their morals."
"You will forgive my son." Marguerite said apologetically as she gently ran her fingers through Lucian's hair. "He speaks his heart without a thought to hold his tongue."
"Madame, there is nothing to forgive," Mercier said quietly, clearly shaken.
"Mother, I am in need of new weaponry," Lucian said softly in a business-like manner.
"Luc, what happened to all your other weapons?" Marguerite asked sternly. "If you keep this up, your father is going to think you are up to something."
Lucian tensed a bit and quickly shot a glance behind him at the two soldiers, who were now standing much closer to him and his mother then before, both men wide eyed and gaping. "Mother, my current arsenal lacks diversity." He said impatiently, quickly turning and facing Marguerite, but casting frequent, irritated glares at the two men.
"What do you need diversity for, Luc?" Marguerite said, laughing slightly at her son's seemingly ridiculous demands.
"There is no bloody point to be sufficiently good with only one weapon, Mother!" Lucian cried, becoming increasingly agitated at the proximity of the two soldiers. "I need to be the best, and I can only be so if I am proficient with everything." Lucian quickly and suddenly reeled on the soldiers standing behind him. "Keep staring, monsieurs. I may do a trick." The boy snarled and, trembling, the men fell back, muttering frantic and hasty apologies. Calming down instantly, Lucian turned back around and bowed slightly toward Marguerite. "Do think on my proposal, Mother. I do not ask for anything I do not need." He said softly as he walked out of the room and disappeared down the corridor.
The three adults watched the boy leave, and for a long while after he left, they remained in absolute silence, Mercier and Coupeau shocked beyond speech, and Marguerite awkwardly running her fingers over her palm.
"Mademoiselle?" Mercier asked in a soft, shaking voice. "Your son…how old is he?"
Marguerite tensed, her breath catching in her throat. They knew! Swallowing and breathing deeply, she stayed with her back turned toward the men and gently whispered, "Fourteen."
Coupeau groaned softly and whispered inaudibly under his breath, but Mercier's initial shock and disbelief melted away into mild anger at the woman before him. "Madame," he whispered nearly dangerously, "why did you not inform us earlier that you gave birth to Chauvelin's son?"
"Chauvelin has no children, monsieur." Marguerite whispered in a voice that betrayed no confidence. "Lucian is mine and my husband's first child."
Who do you think you are fooling, Marguerite?" Mercier shouted, his quiet and calm falling away instantly. "The boy looks exactly like him! And if that was not enough, explain your boy's eyes. I have never seen their like except in Chauvelin. Swear to God Above right now that your boy is not Chauvelin's son! Go on! Damn yourself!"
Marguerite stood still, each word striking her harder then the last until silent tears fell from her deep blue eyes, and she could not bring herself to deny what the man correctly assumed.
Coupeau carefully approached the sobbing woman and gently wrapped his arms around her, allowing her to lay her head against his chest and freely weep.
"Is that it then?" Mercier asked quietly. "Nothing?" He sat back down on the sofa and leaned back, running his hands over his face. "Chauvelin has a son."
Coupeau gently turned Marguerite's face up so he could look her in the eyes. "Madame, that boy is Chauvelin's son?" he asked gently, a soft smile playing upon his lips as his thumbs wiped the tears from Marguerite's face as she nodded in response. "Who knows?"
"My husband." Marguerite said quietly, sniffling slightly and rubbing her eyes.
"That's all?" Coupeau asked in surprise.
"And you two now, but other then that, no, no one else. Why?"
"I don't know. I suppose I'm a bit surprised that no one else has noticed. It's quite obvious to me that he is not your husband's child. But, then again, he does look quite a bit like you, so I see how you were able to pass him off as the baronet's son. You are fortunate he is blonde."
Coupeau paused for a moment, running over all of the questions that he longed to ask the woman he was holding. He and Mercier had been as close to being Chauvelin's friends then anyone else, and now that same man had a child. Marguerite could not possibly know how much her son would change things. The son of a saint, Lucian. He may as well be a god; the people of France have for years been telling stories of the second coming of Chauvelin, when the agent would return to the people stronger then before to finish what he started and bring justice to France. This child had worship waiting for him in the country across the Channel. "Does your son know that Chauvelin is his father?"
Marguerite quickly pulled away from the man. "No! Lucian must never know. No one must ever know! We have done everything in our power to keep him from Chauvelin and his memory. Saint or no, Chauvelin was a killer. I don't want my son to travel down that same path. We have even kept him from France to keep him from becoming like his father."
"I think you have failed in that respect, Madame." Mercier said, getting up and coming to stand beside his friend. "That little speech of his earlier sounded exactly like something Chauvelin would have said had he been alive today. But we shall respect your wishes. No one will know of your son. Your secret is safe with us."
"Ah! Madame, your son has just inherited an insane amount of money!" Coupeau exclaimed, startling the other occupants of the room. "Everything that Chauvelin ever owned now belongs to that boy. He shall have to receive it."
"Oh. How shall we go about doing that?"
"Andre Madeline, Chauvelin's old assistant, is in possession of his will. He's a lawyer now. Just bring the boy with you on your next excursion to France, and we'll escort you to see Andre. He'll sort it all out."
Marguerite slowly shook her head. "I'm afraid I can't do that. I will not allow my son to go to France."
"But Madame…"
"No. I've worked too hard to keep him isolated. Lucian will remain here in England, away from the memory of his father."
"I understand," Coupeau said, sighing heavily.
"We have taken up enough of your time, Madame." Mercier said as he bowed and kissed her hand. "I thank you for having us, and I hope to see you soon again."
"Marguerite, please, if you ever change your mind, remember that your son has a fortune waiting for him in France."
"Of course. Allow me to walk you out." Marguerite said softly, stepping in front of the soldiers and leading them out of the room.
The footsteps of the three adults had long ago died and the manor seemed to lapse into deafening silence, yet Lucian remained unmoving in the alcove he so often used as a child, his back flat against the far wall, his eyes wide and unblinking, hardly breathing at all. All that he had heard simply could not be true. His father. Percy Blakeney, his father. The man that he had grown up with was his father. He couldn't have heard correctly. Perhaps he had not heard anything at all, perhaps he imagined it all. But the more he tried to convince himself, the louder that voice in the back of his mind echoed, "You are Chauvelin's son."
Lucian softly cried in anguish as he sank to his knees and buried his face in his hands; he was suddenly light-headed, nauseous, and every inch of his body ached. The man he thought was his father, the man who raised him, a man that he looked up to, but often hated, was not his father. And the Saint Chauvelin, the man he had spent the last six years learning about and emulating, that shadow who he yearned to be like; he was his son. It didn't make any sense.
How often did he wish, pray, pretend that the fearless agent was his father instead of the foppish baronet? He should be thrilled by the news, ecstatic that he was not related to the man who hardly paid him attention. Instead, unwanted tears ran down his face and he wanted to vomit. This was all too much.
But the more he thought about it, the more sense it made; why he was forbidden to go to France, why the baronet loved his other son more then him, why he always saw hurt and betrayal in his "father's" eyes when he looked at him. Percy had always favored Blake, and now it made sense. Blake was his first son. Of course Percy would treat him better, love him more.
It had been in this hidden room that Lucian had first heard of the agent, and it was here again that his life would be changed drastically by Chauvelin. His father. He never knew him, but he suddenly felt the loss as if he had known him his whole life, like he should have. And now, the chance to ever get to know the man he was supposedly taking after was robbed from him by…by whom? Lucian quickly sifted through his mind for that one piece of information that he knew by heart mere hours before. Oh, he couldn't think at all.
The golden eyes suddenly narrowed and his face darkened as all of his previous anguish and confusion melted away as rage filled his body. The Scarlet Pimpernel. That damned elusive English hero had murdered his father. The British worshipped this man who stole the agent's life from him. And these people raised him; the mere thought made him sick. Raised by people who basked in the light of a killer.
And his so-called parents were no better. They had lied to him. His entire life, they had lied to him. He expected such from his worthless "father", but his mother, his beloved mother had lied to him too. He couldn't trust them. Never again. Their words would be taken with extreme discretion. They could not be trusted.
His mother…she married the baronet, and then gave herself to another man. Lucian shuddered; she was nothing more then a common whore. And he was the result. An illegitimate bastard because his mother was a whore. But had she not said that she loved Chauvelin? Yes, he clearly remembered that she had said that. Why then marry the baronet if her heart belonged to another? Lucian trembled slightly in rage. Percy must have stolen his mother from his father. He could see no other way any of this could make sense.
The golden boy snarled as he organized his thoughts; his father was not the baronet Percy Blakeney like he thought. His father was in fact the Agent Chauvelin, the French hero and saint. His mother had loved the agent, but the baronet had stolen her from his father, forcing his mother to sink to the level of a common whore to be with the man she loved. Then the English hero, the Scarlet Pimpernel, murdered the agent, and his mother was forced to return to her husband. Lucian sneered as he concluded and began to leave his hide out; love was quite clearly pointless, a waste of time, and, frankly, he was beginning to doubt it's existence.
Lucian crawled out of his alcove into the hall, sealing the entrance of the passage as he left. His task seemed clear; he had to take revenge on the Scarlet Pimpernel and Percy Blakeney, one for his father's murder, and the other for taking his mother from the agent. Of course, to do this now would be foolish; he had no idea who the Pimpernel was, and he could not kill these people in the name of his father when he didn't know the man. Though he knew everything about Chauvelin the Saint, he knew nothing of Chauvelin the man. He couldn't call himself his son unless he knew who his father was. Then he would seek his revenge.
A plan, he needed a plan. He would stay in England for a while longer; this miserable country still held use for him. Discover where Chauvelin's associates, friends, offices, anything, could be found in France. Find a lead on the Pimpernel, which would probably direct him to France. The English, ironically, knew even less about the damned elusive then any other nationality. The French probably knew more, which wasn't saying much, but at least it was something. When that was done, he would then leave for his country; after all, he was French, through and through.
Lucian grinned maliciously; all of this seemed too easy. He already had four names from which he could draw information regarding his father: the soldiers Mercier and Coupeau, and the lawyer Andre Madeline. All located in France, all he had to do was locate them. That was simple. And the last of his precious sources was none other then his own, dear mother. She had been intimate with the man. She clearly knew more then anyone. Imagine, his prime source was always within reach. His mother would aid him in his revenge against her husband. Oh, the irony of it was marvelous!
Find out all he could from his mother. Easy. Lucian held the lovely woman in the palm of his hand. The rest would fall into place on its own. Satisfied with his plans for the moment, young Lucian Chauvelin swaggered off with an air of cruel determination and confidence to find his darling mother, suddenly a very different person then he was earlier that very same day.